Calling Out to You
by Shizuka no Taisho
Summary: The more drugs I took, the more I realized that each dose was doing less and less of its job. It got to the point where I'd still think about Mello, even when popping pills and swallowing more whiskey and beer than I could keep track of. He was always there. He wouldn't go away. -Druggie!Matt. Don't read if it offends.


_**Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note, or Framing Hanley, which offered up the song title and was the base inspiration for this fanfic. Which is a one-shot, btw. I will not write more of this :| So don't even ask me to. As for the ending...make your own assumptions XD**_

I'm a fucking wreck. There's a candle on the toilet, spills of wax trickling down the seat and onto the floor. Half of the room is splattered with crusted blood and other bodily fluids that I can't even name. Or remember, for that matter. All around me are broken bottles and empty pill containers, a few of the capsules crushed underfoot from my countless treks into the bathroom, always needing a fix and a place to wallow in my own misery. My bedroom's no good. The stench of cum and sweat is pungent in there. Pretty disgusting shit. I wish I could say that it wasn't my own, that it belonged to someone else, but I'd be lying. Well, partially anyway. Half of it's mine. The other half…honestly, I can't even remember now. I don't think I want to. I've got enough stuff to deal with without worrying about my promiscuity and probably diseased ridden body. What does it matter now anyway? I could promise myself to lay off the sex, avoid the strangers with their clown whore makeup and tattered clothes, but a few bottles of booze, a hit of X later and I won't give a damn. That's just the way these things go. Either way, I'm fucked.

There's a beat up butane lighter resting on the bathtub rim. Picking it up, I can't help but trace the engraved Pacman symbol. Mello gave me this for my thirteenth birthday. He didn't like fueling my cigarette addiction, 'cause after that first one I was hardcorely fixed, but I guess he concluded that if I was gonna fuck up my lungs, the least I could do was do it in style. Really caring of him, right? Fucking asshole. Ah, if only he could see the shit he's put me through…the shit he caused. I wonder if he'd even care. Probably not. He's the one who left after all. No guy who cares soooo much about his so called "best friend" would abandon him to a lifetime of misery and anguish. And that's exactly what he did. He left.

Digging a hand into my pocket, I'm content with the little bag that brushes my fingertips. Ok, so content is a bad choice of words. I'm….fuck, I don't even know. It's my salvation. A reprieve from this hellhole they call life. What the liquor, sex and cigarettes can't fix, this will. That's what I try to tell myself anyway. I know it's a big fat lie. Drugs are funny that way y'know. They make you good for a while, then they toss you back into that hole you dug for yourself and kick you while you're down. It's a pretty shitty way of coping, but it's all I've got anymore. Hacking is just a means of keeping food on the table. Games…..I haven't touched a controller in months. I smashed my DS when Mello left. Liquor just puts me in a stupor. And the sex-so long as I avoid any blond, blue eyes strangers, I'm good to go. Usually. There's those times where it doesn't matter, where I'm so far under the fucking influence that everything's a blur, and the only solid memory I can dredge up from the abyss of my drugged up mind is the ones of him. Everything goes to hell then. I've had one too many addicts tell me that I scream his name while we were doing it. Must've wounded their pride. I should care…yeah, no. I don't. Way I see it, that's his fault too. They can blame him.

Ah hell, what am I saying? Must be the alcohol talking. I distinctly remember swallowing a few shots before stumbling into here, drugs on hand and vision blurred behind my goggles. I can't blame Mello….can I? No. Fuck it, I can't. I get why he left. He couldn't stand the idea of working with Near, and wouldn't accept being anything but number one. Yeah. He had to go play hero and abandon me at Wammy's. He HAD to be an inconsiderate jerk. Goddammit Mello. You knew how fucked up I was! You knew what my dad did, about my mom getting slaughtered like a piece of meat. You knew I hated it there, that the only reason I stayed was because of you! You were the only reason I was ever able to tolerate that fucking place. I was already burning through a pack of smokes a day when you ran off. Didn't you even wonder what would happen if you left me? Did you?

My temples pound, bile acidic in my throat. Choking it down, I punch the cabinet beside me, oblivious to the glass that shatters and cuts my knuckles. Scratch that. I notice. I just can't bring myself to care. Let me bleed. Hell, let all of my blood spill out across the floor! I hope it stains the fucking grout. That'd piss my landlord off. He'd probably charge me extra. Whatever. All that matters is the pain welling up in my chest, and the aching throb that feels like someone took a power drill to my skull. Jesus, this sucks. Where's my drugs? Where the hell did I put my-oh. I open my fist, ignoring the blood trickling down my knuckles and admiring the bag of white powder resting on my palm. Took me a blowjob and some hack work to get this. First time I'd ever used my skills at a computer to get me drugs. Can't help but wonder what Wammy would say. Would the old man be disappointed? Would Roger? Would Mello?

Tch. Yeah right. He'd probably laugh if he saw me like this. Nothing better than kicking a dog while he's down. Isn't that what those bastards in the mafia do anyway? It's what they show in the movies. Some poor schmuck gets his ass handed to him just 'cause the boss doesn't like him, or something equally stupid.

….can't help but feel for the poor bastards. Empathize too.

It's all pretty routine by now, 'cept I don't get that twinge of relief now when I open up the plastic baggie, dumping its contents into a battered metal dish I sometimes use as an ashtray. There's a few specks of a leftover cigarette in there now. Oh well. I smoke enough packs a day as it is. I doubt a few pieces of ash are gonna do any more damage. Yeah? Yeah. I kinda wish I didn't have whole setup nailed down to such a science though. Maybe a fuck up is just the thing I need. Too high of a dose, some other drugs mixed in….I glance at the powder, scooping up my lighter and flicking it open. Not likely. A flame burns to life, and I hold it under the dish, already semi filled with the drug and a teaspoon of water. A guy can dream I guess. Fuck that though. My dreams are kaleidoscopes of memories, Technicolor and agony. Man, I wish this shit could take those away too. Or at least dull then, like it does the pain. But nooo, no suck luck. All it does instead is make me an insomniac. I have huge fucking bags under my eyes, and I know the pupils are still dilated from my last time in here. Hah. Wouldn't L be proud? I'd give B a run for his money in the case of look-a-likes now. Mello would be so jealous. …

Shit. Gotta stop thinking of him. Got to, got to. But I can't. That's just my luck. I drink to forget about the past, but every drop reminds me of my dad and what he did to my mom. I smoke 'cause it's "my thing", but then I gotta look at the stupid lighter Mello gave me to use. That fueled my addiction to dangerous levels. The sex was a good cop out at first, until I remembered who I'd wanted my first time to be with. Mello and I had already been exploring the beginning levels of intimacy, some kissing and groping above the clothes. I'd always had a dream that one day he'd take me to bed, like one of those cliché scenes you read in the romance novels. Stupid. I never got my chance. Mello ran off to do fuck knows what, and I ended up on the streets of California, slumming my way through life and eventually getting plucked up off the sidewalk 'cause of my pretty face. The pain got too horrible to bear after that, and instead of slitting my wrists like a fucking pussy, I took the even worse way out. I turned to drugs.

I did everything in the book. That's not an exaggeration either. Whatever I could get my hands on, I used. At this point, I don't even know what all drugs I've tried, and if they're any out there that I haven't heard of. It's pretty unlikely. Not that it matters. Drugs are drugs, and I was too caught up in my misery and hatred to care that I was killing myself inch by inch. Honestly, I still don't. All I cared about is the high they give me. I could forget about Mello while under their influence, and lose myself to the candy clouds and euphoria. But you know what they say. All good things have to come to an end. Too bad I didn't realize that until it was too late. The more drugs I took, the more I realized that each dose was doing less and less of its job. It got to the point where I'd still think about Mello, even when popping pills and swallowing more whiskey and beer than I could keep track of. He wouldn't go away. He was always there, plaguing my every thought. I couldn't _not_ think of him! Fucking sucks, and it's still that bad. Now every time I take a hit of X, or flood my veins with cocaine and meth, I remember his smile, those beautiful blue eyes. It haunts me.

"Asshole. Wasn't it enough that you abandoned me? You gotta go and haunt me too?" Muttering under my breath, I toss the tin down onto the toilet seat, plucking a still wrapped syringe from the broken cabinet and stripping off the wrapper. I'm a druggie, but I'm smart enough not to share a needle, or reuse them. I can be a dumbass in other ways. Like upping a dosage. Which is pretty much what I'm doing. It's a shitty solution, but the alternative is just as bad. I can either think of Mello and let the pain and hatred drive me insane-or I can pump myself full of whatever the fuck I bought and pray it gets rid of the memories. At least for tonight. The liquor and cigarettes aren't cutting it, and I already had to use sex as a means to get this stuff. What have I got to lose?

Smiling bitterly, I toss the syringe wrapper into the bathtub and close the cabinet door, paying no heed to the missing glass panel of its front. I can repair it later. Eh, never mind. I won't. Saves me any future damages to my knuckles. Besides, I can't even fix myself. A cabinet would be impossible.

The syringe is warm in my hands. I cling onto it with pleasure, stabbing the tip into the dish of milky white fluid and drawing back the plunger, watching the opaque fluid slosh around and disappear. It's too tempting to resist, but I know better by now than to just go stabbing myself. Did that a year ago, and got dragged into an alley and….well, yeah. You get the picture. Yet another crime I can add to Mello's list. Fuck knows he has a whole portfolio's worth by now. He was the one who abandoned me, the catalyst that led to me sitting on my ass here in this bathroom, slumped against the tub and drunk on enough liquor to make a horse topple on its ass. Soon to add X to that too…at least, I think that's what this stuff is.

There's that one moment where I stare at the needle tip, admiring its shiny point and wishing that the drugs didn't take so long to kick in. Leaves too much time to dwell on shit that I'd really rather forget, but know I can't. Not without the drugs, the addictions. Mello abandoned me,. They never will. I need them, which is why I let myself get this way. Maybe it's 'cause I'm too much of a coward, or just rage fueled, but I can't handle shit by myself. No. Fuck no. I can't-won't do it! Gritting teeth, I grab the coil of tubing lying curled up in the sink like a flesh colored snake, tying it around my arm with an ease of…well, fuck, an addict. I probably don't even need to do this step anymore; I know where my veins are by now. I don't feel like wasting time though, so the tourniquet helps things go a little more smoothly. My veins become crystal clear with the aid, thick and dark purple and blue under my ghostly skin. I've always been pale, but lately I've started looking more like a corpse than a man. Hopefully nobody thinks I'm a zombie and puts a bullet in my brain. Actually, that idea doesn't sound too bad…I could go into the city's drug territory and give it a shot. Lots of those guys have weapons. Surely somebody would have the balls to do it?

Fuck, what am I saying? Even if one of those guys would shoot me, and one probably would, there's no way I could ever get off my feet, drag myself out the front door and stumble down there. That whole coward thing and all. If I'd wanted to die by now, then I'd be dead. There's dozens of ways a guy like me could get killed. Overdose, alcohol poisoning, a gun to the head; yeah. Plenty of options. But I've always paid enough attention to the drug doses to keep myself from going under, and I've never drank enough to get me any more than pissed-to-my-eyeballs drunk. Must be my Irish blood. Whatever it is, there's no death in my future. Not a purposeful one anyway. If the fucking Grim Reaper wants to take me, then he can send a blond hellion with blue eyes to pull the trigger, 'cause otherwise that shit's not going down. Not while I have anything to say about it….though moments like this, it's goddamn tempting to give in and just-I dunno…..slit my wrists. Or topple that candle over and catch the shitty towels on fire. Maybe dump some lit matches onto the living room floor. There's plenty of alcohol around here to make the apartment go up in a blazing flame of glory. It'd be like those action movies. All peace and quiet, and then BAM! Fire everywhere, glass breaking and shooting shards down onto the street below. Bricks and wood turning into shrapnel. Mello would have a hoot. He always loved watching those kinda movies in the Wammy's recreation room. He-

"Would fucking abandon me, just like last time." The needle sinks beneath my skin, and a hiss comes out of my mouth involuntarily. As fucked up as I am, I can never get over that first initial sting. But then the plunger is pushed, and there's a flood of milky liquid moving into my veins, my bloodstream, pumping all throughout my body in order to give me the relief I so desperately crave. Relieved, I toss the syringe aside, untie the tubing and throw it away. All I can do now is…wait. That's probably the most shitty thing about doing drugs. You gotta wait until they kick in. And waiting for me means thinking. Thinking means remembering. And remembering is not something I ever want to do. Not when it destroys me inside it. Remembering drove me to do this kinda shit in the first place! All because I couldn't stop thinking about….him. "It's always him." My own voice sounds unfamiliar. Dull, brooding. Not the voice of some kid who's barely a teenager. I shouldn't sound like this, should I? I should be rotting my brain with video games and junk food, like normal children. Ha.

"I'm not normal."

It's impossible not to hear my own bitterness. I'm not normal. Even if I wasn't a druggie and potential alcoholic with depressing and rage saddled on his shoulders, I'd still be a fucking genius. Nothing I can do about that, 'cept try to rot my brain out as quickly as possible. Too bad that doesn't seem to be working out so well. I've tried everything short of hurting myself, at least in the traditional emo-boy fashion, and it just doesn't work. Not the drugs, not the liquor. Not the sex or mindless trips down the alleys of Los Angeles, praying some car runs me down, or a thug shoots me dead. I'm too damn lucky. Mello would claim that God was watching over me, though why he'd watch a sorry miscreant like me is way over my level of comprehension. I'm not even Christian! Fuck, I can picture myself telling him that, and oh, how those blue eyes would narrow in irritation. Mello never did like hearing my thoughts when it came to God. Him being Catholic and all, and me being…whatever.

I'm thinking of him again. Goddammit.

The dose isn't big enough. It's not working. You need to take more! All that's sounding in my head like gunfire, and it hurts like a bitch. Clutching my temples, I sink down onto the floor and withhold the urge to just let go and cry, instead watching the candlelight dance across the cracked and moldy tiles. Yet another spot of filth on my life. I could clean it up, the mold that is, but all that effort….and why should I do it? It's not MY responsibility. I didn't make the fucking mold! I didn't put it there! So why should I be the one to clean it? Let Mello do it! He's the one who abandoned me, left me at Wammy's when he knew I'd be miserable there. He KNEW, but he still left. He….. "left me." It's barely a whisper, and I can't help but cringe at the despair in my tone. I sound pathetic. I am pathetic. I'm lying on a bathroom floor, with shit knows how many drugs and liters of alcohol in my bloodstream. I can't stop thinking about Mello, though he just makes me hate life even more than I already do, and there's not jack shit that I can do about it. Oh wait, yeah there is. Suffer. Or block it out. I think there's some leftover painkillers in the cabinet.

Reaching blindly, I ignore the strain of my cut knuckles and grab the bottle of pills. Somewhere far off in my mind is a warning bell. It's screaming at me not to be an idiot, to put the stuff down and deal with my problems like a man. I ignore it. Who are they to tell me how to deal with things? Is it my fault that Mello left me and turned me to this like of sex and drugs? Should I be blamed for his fuck ups too now? Back in Wammy's I'd always do that, whenever Roger busted us for one of his schemes. Mello let me. 'I can't be number one if I'm always in detention Matt!' he'd say, looking at me with those angelic eyes. Angel my ass! A sneer curls my lips, and the pill bottle cracks, pills spilling onto the cabinet shelf. I didn't even realize I'd been clenching it so hard. Fuck it. Snatching up one of the painkillers, I think an Oxycodone, I pop it into my mouth without a thought, cursing Mello as I do. Probably the stupidest thing I've done lately, and I….I don't care. I don't care at all.

It's cold in here, but I barely notice. My body's on the floor, there's so much pain and the drugs aren't doing anything about it yet. I feel like I'm on fire, sweat starting to build on my brows and cheeks. As if to taunt me, I can picture Mello in my head laughing at me, calling me all sorts of names like he used to do; Dog, mutt, dumbass, idiot. But they all sound cruel now, not that playful teasing that they used to be. There's nothing I can do about that either. 'Lay here and rot,' I mumble inside the memory hazed cesspool that is my brain, eyes dragging shut as I feel a spasm roll through my gut. Oh shit….shit shit shit. It's not going away. Hell, it's getting worse! How long was it since I took the injection? Time's always playing tricks with me nowadays. Sometimes I can't even keep track of what day it is. What seems like five minutes could be ten, or twenty, or even-ahh! Another one, and I curl into myself, fog clouding over my eyes and making my tongue go lank.

It's a muscle cramp. Somehow my genius self offers up that little factoid, forcing a grimace onto my face. Muscle cramp. Could be from anything, but there was a lot of liquid in that syringe…..a whole lot of Ecstasy. If it was even solely that. And too much means an overdose. A real fucking overdose…and I just took an Oxycodone on top of it all. "D-Dammit," my hand curls into a fist, and there's the dim sound of nails scratching across the linoleum. Am I making that noise? Shit. Fuck. Goddamn. I actually manage to vocalize that one, and it gives me a huge sense of pride. Drugged and overall fucked up, but I can still get one up on you life! And you, Mello. So y'know what? Goddamn you! Hear that Mello? Goddamn you! Yeah! I said it! You can take your righteous religious bullshit and shove it up your ass! You left me to rot in that orphanage, you stupid ass, and now I OD'd and I'm gonna pass out on this floor, all because you were too selfish to take me with you. Why didn't you? Did you think I was too lazy? Too helpless? Too much of a fuck up to be of any use to you? Or were you just looking to get rid of me?

Yeah, I bet that was it. What's friendship with some blond orphan with angel eyes that never cared about you enough to even serve a meager detention Who let you take the wrap for all his crimes, then pretended it would be ok with a semi-kind word and tease. You were always kinda selfish, but that was ok, right? 'Cause I was the lackey, meant to do all of the leg work while you sat around and boasted about your plans to beat Near, become L. The rants about how you were gonna get us outta that hellhole, make a life for the both of us. All that stuff that I took in stride, even looked forward too in some cases…all those detentions, midnight excursions for chocolate…the hugs, and tender moments….oh hell, Mello, I still miss yo-

No! Nono! I don't! I hate him! I never would've turned to drugs and alcohol if he'd just…..just….

I feel hot. So hot. And woozy. Slumping to the side, I embrace the cool tile as my body hits it, cheek between the tub and filthy toilet. How fitting. I make no move to correct my position….because I can't move. Not an inch. Too tired, and too sweaty. There's all this pain welling up from somewhere deep inside, and I'm momentarily relieved, 'cause physical pain usually means no thoughts. But they still come, all in visions of that beautiful face with its golden as the sun lashes and smile that could warm my heart, melt the barriers around it and pull me close. I think about him. Always him. I've been down this road before; there's no point in even hiding the truth anymore. I've got problems, and I'm screwing up my life. All thanks to him.

"Mello…." Another spasm of pain, though it feels more like agony now. I gasp, cry out. Nobody's gonna hear me. Not like my neighbors give a shit. And the only other people who come to my apartment are fellow drug addicts looking to score. Chances of my being saved are pretty damn slim. "F-fuu-" teeth grind hard in my mouth, and I feel sweat roll down my jaw. Or is it a tear? "Hey-hey Mello…." I'm speaking to the apparition inside my mind. The hellion who looks like Peach's love-child with Link. But way hotter…..and a total bastard. Damn, I must really be fucked up now, thinking stuff like that. Plus the sweating, cramping, dizzy and-oh yeah, sick. Puke worthy really. I was right, wasn't I? Fucking OD. My dream come true.

Lucky me. Maybe this time I'll just keel over for good. If that's the case, then hallelujah. I'll tell God hello if I see him Mells, if you haven't already yourself. The thought makes me laugh, and that hurts worse. Yet another scream comes roaring out of my throat, body trembling on the floor as a pool of sweat forms under my neck, each drip making me hurt. "M…Me," I cringe, knowing that the name will only cause me more agony, both physical and emotional. I'm just a masochist I guess. Wouldn't be surprising. "Mello….!"

So many empty promises Mello. You left me alone. I took to smoking, liquor, drugs and sex just to escape that thought, but I can't anymore. There's no running away. All I can do now is pop the pills, down the booze, spread my legs and call out your name in the growing dark, pray that this next dose will cut me down, a dog on his last two feet. That's what you always called me, isn't it Mello? A dog? Well fine, you insufferable prick. If I ever see you again, I'll show you that my goddamn bark is just as bad is my bite! If this overdose doesn't kill me, and it probably won't, since I have the shittiest luck on the planet, then you better not come back for me. Be dead, or stay far away. I'll make your life a living hell, you dick!

It hurts….it hurts so much….and it's only getting worse. I feel foggy. I can't move, but while my mind's still good I'll scream my lungs out. And you know what? You're gonna hear me, wherever you are! Got that Mello? I hate you for doing this to me! I hate you! Why can't you just get out of my head? You abandoned me! Leave me alone! Go play your stupid grown up games and pretend you're doing something good while I lie here on this floor and suffer! I hope you're proud of yourself! You could've prevented all this, had you done the right thing. We were friends, and I-I loved you! I would've done anything for you! But it never mattered, did it? I called out for you y'know, when you left Wammy's. I screamed your name, a lot like what I'm doing now. I begged you to come back, take me with you. Let me help you Mello, I cried. Let me…..oh man, just let me be there for you, like I used to be. Please Mello, please. I don't want it to hurt anymore. I hate living like this. Just this once, answer my call. Get me away from this misery, this suffering. Please, I'll do anything, anything you want! Please Mello!

…please…..


End file.
